Lacrimosa
by demonegg
Summary: The Lifestream was dying. People were angry. He didn't care--not his problem. But when she was dying, suddenly it was his problem, & it was the biggest problem of all. Because to save her he had to do the one thing he couldn't do: he had to die.


I do not own Final Fantasy VII or Nietzsche.

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_**Lacrimosa**_

I am not the right person to tell this story.

The right person lies buried beneath six feet of earth and god-knows-how-much rubble at the top of a hill overlooking the recovering city. They called it the best spot in Midgar. A great view, right in the middle of all the hustle and bustle--or what was left of it. I remember the day they appeared out of nowhere, greasy smiles dripping off their faces, suits starched into pleated creases, tucked and bent like some nameless Everyman of a child's garland, awaiting the imminent opportunity to fold over themselves for a quick sale; brochures in tow. An overeager artist's renditions were slathered on glossed pages, somehow veneering the lies into half-hearted promises. _Phoenix Down Cemetery and Crematorium: See Midgar the Way Heaven Does_. Fingers pointed to pictures of the proposed memorial: _Notice the Amenities _(Standard), _the Poetry_ (Banal), _the Lifelike Statue_ (Great. You traded the warmth in her eyes for cold, hard steel). A pudgy hand clapped me on the back.

_Everything's been arranged. You won't have to do a thing._

Eyes ballooned, steel clipped skin. Bastard didn't even have time to breathe. _Touch me again, prick. I fucking dare you._

They were lucky. I didn't have patience for that bullshit anymore (what was one more life in the grand scheme of things), but she had died there, and I'd be damned before I let them share the same space as her. Faces paled when I swore that if either of them set foot within five hundred yards of her, I would feed every piece of their lying, sniveling flesh to a pack of hungry bandersnatches without second thought. _Everything's been arranged. _

In the end, though, I still signed her name to that laughingstock of a shrine. She was already there, and for as much as she did for me in life, she at least deserved to have me visit her eternal resting place, maybe bring her flowers sometime. I vaguely recall her placing some on a grave once. I can't remember whose anymore, but the flowers were red--a deep red, clutched in black. Mantled within the hazy specters of times long past, her voice still rings in my head, quiet and unobtrusive, telling me they were happy now--whoever they were. I don't know if I believed her then, but I wanted to; and deep down, I think I still do. And even though I could pretend she'd be happy if I put a flower or two on her grave, I haven't yet. It's hard finding the courage to go up there and visit knowing she'll never see what color they are, or just how fucking messed up I am over all this, or that I even came. I almost want to dig her up, just so she can see for herself. But I know the only thing I'll ever find is the makeshift silk and cherry-wood tomb.

Empty, of course.

(It's such a goddamn soap opera.)

The saddest thing is I met her only once, and then, only briefly. I stopped breathing when she whispered my name.

She tasted like banana bread.

Feet tapping to some unknown melody, she perched on the edge of her bed and smoothed out the wrinkles on her sheets. Someone had painted her nails the most vibrant shade of red--the kind of color that adopts a vitality of its own, complete with history and stories and endless memories, but no future other than the inevitable chip. Cracked glass or fractured skull.

She told me she lived right here, had lived here her whole life. Funny, how I had never met her before then. Shrugging her shoulders, she only smiled in that shy way she always did.

I smiled back. The muscles were a little sore from underuse, but I liked the feeling.

It was a Saturday in August, I believe, about mid-afternoon. Scorching heat, thunderheads posed on the eastern horizon, less-than-menacingly due to the drought. Somewhere in the slums, a dog howled for food.

I waited for her to say something. Anything, really. It was only later that I realized that she had told me everything in that moment (and probably every moment if I thought about it.) But being the moron that I was, I took her silence as my cue to leave. _Hey, I guess I should get going/This was nice/I'll be back later/I'm gonna head out now/Gotta mosey_. (Take your pick...they're all dumb. I never had anything good to say back then, anyways.) She nodded, and I ran outside. The engine hissed in annoyance; the gravel concurred, crackled under my tires, but I still pulled onto the barren street.

That was the last time I ever saw her. Three days later--three fucking stupid days later--she was dead.

Four days earlier, she could have died, and I can't say I would have ever really known it; but now I had touched her, and I would not be able to do it ever again.

The funeral occurred the very next day at the spot on the top of the hill. I didn't go; it didn't matter--everyone told me about it later anyways. Their eyes had almost completely swollen shut from salt and water.

Mine were still dry.

Yuffie flew at me in a fury and accused me of being heartless. Barrett, too. If tears and booze hadn't obscured his vision, I'd be resting next to her now from the bludgeoning he would have given me.

Or so I hoped.

I never even dodged. I simply stood immobile and prayed for death. Ironic, really, considering the single thought echoing through my mind:

God was dead.

Somehow, I had killed her.

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This is my first FFVII story, so suggestions are definitely appreciated. Comment if you feel so inclined.

Also, this is an AU so the characters may seem a bit off at first. However, I feel that their reactions to certain events in the story are well within their personalities in the games/movie. However, should you ever feel otherwise, I'd like to know. And just FYI, _she_'s probably not who you think she is. But she might be, so who knows.

Thanks for reading.


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